Page 5

Mr. Marsden took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket and deftly latched them around the young man’s wrists. He then took the watch from Mr. Bailey, scarcely looking at it before slipping it into his pocket. “I’m much obliged, young lady.”

Hannah bobbed a stiff curtsy. Was that what was expected when responding to a Bow Street runner? She had no idea. Thanking him in return did not seem quite right. But neither did ignoring him.

“It seems that you have apprehended your thief, Marsden, so I would respectfully request that I be permitted to remove my daughter from this place,” her father said.

“Of course, sir.” Mr. Marsden moved farther into the shop, dragging the young man with him and leaving the doorway clear. “Good day to ya.”

Her father offered him a grim nod, and Hannah’s heart sank. It should have been a good day. The very best, in fact. Not only had she visited her father’s solicitor’s office, but they’d also found a beautiful brooch for her mother’s birthday. And yet neither of those things seemed quite so important or wondrous as they had a mere half hour ago.

“Come, Hannah.” Her father crossed the short distance to the exit on brisk feet, drawing Hannah along with him. She stumbled, struggling to keep up. But as they crossed the threshold, she could not help but turn her head for one last look at the unkempt young man. His thin shoulders remained square, his chin up, and for one brief moment, his gray eyes met hers. Then he looked away, his expression as empty as the street beyond the open door.

Chapter 3

Samuel stood in front of Number Four Bow Street and eyed the impressive house warily. He had never ventured this close to it before. Not surprisingly, thieves were known to avoid the area. The chance of a well-to-do recognizing a thief who may have crossed his or her path was far too likely for the comfort of most pickpockets. And the Blind Beak’s men—many of whom were familiar with the shadier residents of London—were forever coming and going along this street. Whether they were reporting new findings, attending hearings, or receiving instructions, they were too observant by half.

With an unsettling awareness that his life was about to be completely upended, Samuel took a step toward the half dozen stone steps that led to the imposing front door.

“Not that way,” Marsden said, tugging on Samuel’s arm. “Leastways, not yet.”

Samuel frowned. “Where are we goin’, then?”

“We’re goin’ t’ ’ave a little sit-down together.”

Samuel’s stomach lurched. He may not have frequented Bow Street, but he knew enough about what went on here to guess what that meant. “I’m not ’ungry.” It was a lie, but he had no desire to enter the Brown Bear public house.

“I didn’t ask if ya were,” Marsden said.

“I’m not thirsty either.”

“Fair enough.” Marsden drew him toward the entrance of the es­tablishment directly across from Fielding’s house. “We’ll ’ave a nice conversation whilst I enjoy my drink. Or better yet, an enlightenin’ one. Ya can tell me where ya live and who yer companions are.”

Schooling his features to remain neutral, Samuel gave a nonchalant shrug. “There’s nothin’ t’ tell.”

Marsden gave Samuel’s arm a more forceful tug and reached for the Brown Bear’s front door with his other hand. “Oh, I’m quite sure there is.”

Even though it was not long past midday, the Brown Bear’s parlor was dimly lit. A fire burned in the fireplace, sending shimmering shadows dancing across the whitewashed walls. Eight to ten round tables stood scattered around the room, most of them occupied by at least one gentleman. Voices, most of them muted, were interspersed by an occasional cough, laugh, or indignant shout. Marsden paused, scouring the room with unmistakable purpose. Samuel waited, bracing himself for whatever lay ahead.

A man who had entered the public house directly ahead of them was now standing beside a nearby table. The fellow placed the quill he’d been carrying in the hand of the man seated there and guided it over the piece of paper he’d set on the table.

“That will do, Noakes,” the seated man said, returning the quill. “There’s no need to bring over anything more. I have overheard enough paltry excuses for running gambling and bawdy houses for one luncheon. And as Pentlow and Saunders appear to have the questioning of the unfortunate owners of those establishments well in hand, I shall reconvene today’s formal examinations in my parlor shortly.”

“Very good, Sir John.”

Samuel stiffened. Sir John? The man at the table had his back to him. His white wig and black jacket were unremarkable and indistinguishable in the Brown Bear’s poor light. But there was only one man with such a title who was known to regularly patronize this place.

“That’s enough loiterin’.” Marsden’s voice broke into Samuel’s tumbling thoughts. “This way.”

The man at the table cocked his head to one side. “Is that Marsden I hear?”

“It is, my lord.” The fellow now holding the paper and quill shot Marsden an apologetic look. “He just entered with someone who appears to be a young felon.”

“A young felon? Someone we know, or are you making a hasty assumption, Noakes?”

The man visibly bristled. Of course, if the fellow at the table was indeed the Blind Beak, he would not see it.

“Given that the fellow’s chin is as smooth as a child’s and Marsden has a firm grip on his handcuffed arms,” the man named Noakes said, “I would contend that both descriptors are accurate, my lord.”

The titled gent grunted, seemingly unwilling to fully concede the point. “Return the signed summons to Brogden and tell him to prepare the next case.”